


City in Dust

by MMXIII



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Fluff, For reasons, Guns, Implied Sexual Content, Injury, Jim is a dick, M/M, Moriarty is Alive, Murder Husbands, Post-The Reichenbach Fall, Power Dynamics, Psychopaths In Love, Sebastian is actually quite reasonable, Swearing, Violence, Whump, accidental disregard of personal space, all things considered, criminal boyfriends, kind of?, lots of face/neck touching, mormor, much swearing, serious injury, shifting power dynamics though, the usual?, wilful disregard of personal space
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-16
Updated: 2014-06-26
Packaged: 2018-02-04 22:45:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,492
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1795963
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MMXIII/pseuds/MMXIII
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>‘You were dead’<br/>‘Not quite’<br/>You smile humourlessly<br/>‘Ha, well. /I/ thought you were dead’<br/>You rub your hand against the back of your head, imagining the back of his blown away.<br/>Brain clinging to shards of white glistening skull<br/>‘I can see that’, he says</p><p>[Or, Jim & Sebastian have *that* conversation]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I.

‘You were dead’

‘Not quite’

You smile humourlessly

‘Ha, well. _I_ thought you were dead’

You rub your hand against the back of your head, imagining the back of his blown away.

_Brain clinging to shards of white glistening skull_

‘I can see that’, he says from the sofa, black suit, white shirt, legs folded casually, the left over the right. He’s got a cut on his face that follows the curve of his eye socket. Of course he’s referring to the malnutrition, the insomnia that colour each of your movements. Your hair is too long, shirt loose, posture hangdog.

You look away, ashamed. You’re a fucking mess, self-reliance shot to pieces in the conflagration that followed his ‘death’. You _still_ don’t eat, don’t sleep, can’t-

‘You look terrible’

                                ‘Well you look fucking great, considering the last time I saw you’

He smiles delicately, all teeth

You’ve only ever had awe for his audacity, now it grates on you.

‘You know’, you say, feeling reckless, ‘the first thing I learnt about myself when I shipped out was that my hand _never_ shakes’

You pause. He isn’t looking at you, but you can tell he’s listening. You breathe in slowly.

‘And now’, you look at your hand held out in front of you, twitching. He glances up briefly.

‘Stress apparently’ you say evenly, ‘I think that’s what they call irony’

He cracks his neck, an old habit.

‘Do you remember-’

                                                ‘Yeah, probably. I’m not an idiot’, you snap, childish, but somewhat satisfying.

He sighs tiredly, it sounds laboured.

‘It was imper-’

You cut him off with a dismissive gesture. ‘I knew you were into the theatrics, but this was a bit much, don’t you think?’

He makes to cross his arms but decides against it, placing his right back on the arm of the sofa. His cuff seems to fall very low on his wrist.

‘Quick note would have been nice. Text, post-it, whatever’

                                                                                                                ‘Plausible deniability’ he drawls

‘If it was even fucking necessary at all’

‘Dead men tell no tales, Sebastian’

‘Like anyone could’ve made you do anything you didn’t want to’

‘I suppose you would know’, he shrugs stiffly.

‘Fuck you’. But you say it without heat, tired rather than angry, though you could probably get there if you really tried.

‘We all have our pressure points, Sebastian’

He looks at you pointedly

You turn your lighter over in your fingers inside the right pocket of your jeans.

‘What are you doing here, Jim?’

‘Reconnaissance’

‘Oh god, you are such a _dick_ ’, _reconnaissance_ , like you’re a client or something.

‘How original’ he sneers, now looking you right in the eye, ‘frankly I expect-’

‘Shut up, James, I’m under no obligation to listen to this. In fact, you can piss right off. I’m fucking tired, and I’m going to bed’

You push yourself off the wall as if to leave. You could do with a shower, you probably smell.

‘I came to tell you-’

‘Not your fucking lackey anymore, you don’t get to order me around. You’re dead, remember?’

‘LISTEN’ he snarls, you stop, turn, ‘I came to warn you that they might be more interested in you now that I’m back. You might get some trouble. They might think you were involved all along’

You laugh without meaning to, a short, ugly sound

‘I can just tell them I didn’t have a fucking clue then, can’t I. They could probably tell that just by-’

‘Sebastian’, he sounds a little annoyed. Good.

‘What? You think I can’t handle some trouble?’

‘It’ll be coming from the top. I’m just letting you know. By all means crawl back into your grotesque bedsit and bolt the door behind you. Maybe the sticky carpet will deter them’

‘There are 17 knives in my flat’ you say, not rising to the taunt in his curling lip, ‘I think I got it covered’

You watch his eyes flick around finding 8 in seconds.

‘Mine’s nicer’

‘What?’

‘My flat’ he says, completely deadpan, ‘it’s much nicer than yours’

There’s a beat of silence during which you swear he leans forward ever so slightly.

‘You. Have got. To be kidding’

He says nothing. And isn’t that telling

‘No’, you can’t _believe_ him

‘No?’ he says it softly

 _Ridiculous,_ you think, _not a fucking clue_

He looks at you carefully, entire demeanour shifted into neutral, unreadable. Meanwhile the tremor in your hand is getting worse. _Fuck him_.

‘No’

You stare at him from across the room, arms folded. He stares back from the shitty sofa you can’t really believe he actually sat on.

‘Ah’ he says, eyes flicking towards his feet.

You continue to stare at him in vague disbelief. He cannot seriously expect you to just-

‘If you need anything…’ he gestures vaguely across the room looking _uncomfortable_.

You raise your eyebrow, ‘you know I won’t ask’

‘Yes, I know’ he says, leaning back and closing his eyes briefly, ‘ _I know_ ’.

You can hear the traffic outside. Somebody yells, a kid maybe. Sirens wax and fade.

‘Well’ he says abruptly, standing up smoothly and smiling brightly, ‘things to do, Sebastian, people to see’.

An ambulance speeds down the road below and fades into the suburbs. Something is off.

‘What’s wrong with your shoulder, Jim?’

He stops dead, eyes locked on the door, left hand curling into his sleeve.

‘Your phone’s in your left jacket pocket’, you committed him to memory, you noticed immediately.

‘Shoulder though?’ He murmurs, smiling faintly

‘Lucky guess’ you quip, a little unnerved at his tone

‘No’ he says, still quiet, but this time imperious

‘You seem a bit stiff’ you say carefully, ‘I know how you move. It’s…’

_Obvious_

You look away

He looks at you sideways before smiling with one side of his face. ‘Fieldwork’ he says wryly, ‘you can’t possibly **imagine** the noise. The _people_ ’.

An expression of chronic disdain flits across his face briefly. You can’t **imagine** him getting his hands dirty. The tedium of reality rarely interests him; he loves working in the abstract.

‘I think I can actually, you pretentious shit’

Before he can say anything, you stride forward until you’re almost crowding him against the wall. He stumbles back the last foot but doesn’t look away. You like the sound of his splayed shoulder blades hitting the wall. It’s only when you notice that’s he’s got to look _up_ at you that you remember how fucking short he actually is. He smells like blood. Without warning you grab his forearm and twist it _just so_. His pained snarl barely escapes his throat, but this close you can see _and_ feel it.

‘ _Dislocation_ ’, you say slowly, smirking

He leans back and his head hits the plasterboard with a dull thud. His right hand is curled around your arm, just under the bicep.

‘Colourful?’

‘Mmm’

With both hands you undo two buttons of his shirt and pull it open towards his shoulder. The skin is dark purple, almost black in places, and mottled with greens and sickly yellows; the colours of advanced putrefaction. It looks painful.

Your hand finds the back of his neck, thumb moving in in small, even circles.

‘You put it back in yourself’ you say

He makes an odd noise, something between a sigh and a wheeze. You notice his eyes are a little blood shot.

And then it hits you: _he smells like blood_

You watch his face as you move your hands, expecting protest, an outburst. He only blinks and frowns slightly, hand tightening on your arm.

Undoing another button reveals the edge of a large square of gauze. Tiny flecks of red have begun to pin prick the white cotton of his shirt.

‘When…?’

‘Super-’

‘If you say superficial, I’m going to fucking kill you’

‘You’re such a cave-’

‘I said, _when_?’

                                ‘Last week’

‘ _Fuck_ ’

‘I don’t need-’

‘Stop talking’

He strains forward violently and gets a knee in your stomach almost ducking under your arm before you pin his good arm down, hand around his wrist.

You hear a familiar _click_ , and suddenly, everything’s taut like a live wire.

You can feel the muzzle of the gun pressed into the soft skin between your jaw and your throat. You wonder where he was keeping that, because you really should’ve noticed.

He’s panting in shallow breaths.

You take your hands off him slowly in a half-arsed but wary gesture of surrender. If you die today, well, that’s that, better by his hand than anyone else’s.

‘Jim?’

You can just about distinguish between the black and brown of his eyes. ‘What’s going on?’

You do your best not to flinch as the gun jolts against your throat.

‘Loose end’ he mumbles.

‘Loose cannon actually’ you say attempting humour.

His eyes flicker to yours; he frowns.

‘What? It’s on my papers’ you say, ‘under alarmingly charismatic’.

He looks confused for a moment before his arm drops heavily to his side, gun connecting with the floor with a staccato _clack._

_Wrong day to die_

He startles at the sound;your pulse is fucking _jacked_.

‘Ugh’ he says, wrinkling his nose sluggishly, ‘ _linoleum_ ’

‘Christ, Jim’ you say, half laughing, half _fuck knows_ as you slide the semi-automatic away from his feet with your toe.

He starts to slide down the wall. You ease him down, one hand holding his neck like a child’s. With the other, you reach for the gun, click on the safety, place it on the nearest surface. Two threads of blood slide down his wrist from inside his sleeve and drip into his slack palm. Unbuttoning the last of his shirt you see the bruising and lacerations across his ribs, skin damp and flushed. The bandage around his abdomen is slowly turning red.

_Shit_

‘How did you even walk in here? You fucking idiot’

His head rolls to the side, bracketed between your forearms

‘You say such lovely things, Sebastian’

You lower your forehead to his

_Oh god you missed him_

‘Nah, I’m all walk. It’s you that does all the fucking talking’

He nuzzles your jaw and everything in your brain turns to white noise.

‘You have my undivided attention’, you murmur, so close you can see the sweat curling the hair behind his ear.

He stares at his hand clutching your arm, nails pressed into the flesh over your wasting muscles. He looks sort of surprised. He doesn’t look at you as he speaks.

‘You may need to-’

‘What? Bring the car around? You aren’t going anywhere’

He looks pained

‘Hang on. Did you _drive_ here? You hate driving’

‘I had to improvise’, he says gesticulating limply, ‘disparate infrastructure. I’ve been away for a while’

‘Yeah you fucking have’

He breathes out loudly, mouth slightly open.

‘You’ve been reckless’, you say

                                                ‘You’re _always_ reckless’

‘Doesn’t matter. I’m not the brains of this organisation’.

You can hear the fridge whirring in the background, water running in the pipes next door. There’s a cigarette burn on the skirting board by his elbow.

‘Get up off the floor’ you say suddenly, crouching on the balls of your feet, ‘ _I_ live here: its filthy’.

He laughs briefly without meaning to.

You wrap an arm around his waist gently and pull him up. He still doesn’t weigh anything.

‘Welcome to Shoreditch’ you say theatrically, ‘we’ll have to save up for a trouser press, but I think there’s food in the fridge’


	2. II

You stumble to the bedroom, arm still around his waist, and get him to sit on the mattress under the window. You slip his shoes of quickly but he tenses when you make to ease his jacket further over his shoulder.

‘Get your-’

                ‘Nope’, you swat his hand away

‘-hands off-ah stop. STOP’, he snarls grabbing your arm as you attempt to pull the sleeve over his wrist.

                ‘Just let me-’

He lurches forwards, forehead connect sharply with your chin. Instinctively you wrench his damaged shoulder and force him back down. He yells in pain, good arm raised defensively across his body. His eyes are watering, breathing laboured.

**_How are the mighty fallen_ **

‘Stay’, you snap, rage coiling outwards, licking the walls, ‘before you fucking fall over’, _again_.

He just stares at you, angled with his back to the wall. You come back to yourself abruptly and take it in. Shit, _shit._

‘Sorry, I...’ you rub the back of your neck awkwardly, ‘reflexes, you know. Old habits’, _control_ , you think, _controlcontrol…_

His head dips minutely in the suggestion of a nod as he lowers his arm slowly. It’s clear that you’re both as _volatile_ as each other, nerves shot to pieces under a tenacious layer of something like self-control. You wonder idly if he’ll ever tell you exactly how he’s spent the last three years. But of course he won’t. It’s possible you don’t want to know.

The shirt comes off without further protest, sticking to your fingers damply and leaving red smears on the palms of your hands. You pull it out from under him, gently, searching for red. It smells rank, like iron and standing water. His chest is covered in blue black clouds of blood. The lacerations are half-healed, abdominal stitches torn but salvageable. He’s clearly had some kind of medical attention so you’re not overly worried, he’s just chosen to ignore the ‘sleep it off’ _for a while_ part. Same old. Dressings; pain medication; water. Nothing seems broken so you figure you’ll assess the ‘situation’ in the morning.

Provided he stays, obviously.

Putting on one of your t-shirts is more awkward. You have to slowly manoeuvre his bad arm into the sleeve first before stretching the shirt over his head with an uncomfortable gentleness.

You tug the back of the shirt down to his waist without lifting his back from the mattress. Your eyes are rimmed red. His are glassy. Next you unbuckle his belt and slide his trousers off as he stares listlessly at the ceiling. There’s an untidy scar the length of your hand on the side of his thigh.

 _You remember this part a little differently_ , you think, as you carefully ease his feet out of each trouser leg.

_You remember things tearing as he strained up against the weight of you holding him down, stubble scratching your throat, snarling with one leg curled over your shoulder as you-_

His knee falls limply to the side as you lower his ankle back down. The skin sliding over the ankle bone itself is heavily abraded and dirty.

Your eyes flick to his underwear, faded boxers, not ones you remember. Placing a careful hand against his thigh you tug questioningly on the hem.

‘No’

                ‘Alright’

Your thumb makes a small circle on his thigh, a brief affirmative gesture. He seems uncharacteristically relieved.

As you pull a pair of soft trackies up to his waist, the sight of his flat, pale stomach obscured by gauze and old t-shirt makes you feel sick. Without thinking you press your mouth to the fabric over each pronounced iliac crest. Medical tape crinkles softly under your hands.

You rest your head against his hip, hands _deferential_ in their careful placement. He doesn’t laugh, doesn’t say anything, and you breathe together in silence.

Beyond the window the newly augmented sound of cars passing implies rain.

He breathes out slowly and you draw a line along his slack forearm with the side of your thumbnail. Your eyes close to the feeling of fingers brushing over your ear, pushing into your hair. You’ve never done this before. You don’t even know what _this_ is.

‘I’m angry’ you say quietly. You realise it’s the first time you’ve ever _really_ spoken aloud in this room.

‘Yes’, his voice is barely audible.

You move further up the mattress, lying alongside him, and place two fingers under his jaw. His head tips back slowly as he lets you press up under his throat, _hard_.

You push until you can feel the inside of his jaw bone against your filthy finger nails. Hooking your index finger inside the hinge of his jaw, you see his mouth twitch in discomfort; his pulse thrums evenly, barely separate from yours. You slide your hand to lie across the base of his throat and press there too, squeezing the airway. His leg twitches against your and you feel his fingers around your forearm, a warning rather than a threat.

You ease off and turn his head to the side by pulling on his chin; he lets you do that too.

You don’t for a second see his vulnerability as greater than yours.

You groan, briefly resting you forehead against cheekbone, before sitting up slowly on the edge of the mattress and turning away from him. _Control._

His hand finds your lower back, just pressing against the base of your spine.

You struggle with the tightness coiling in your throat. He speaks before you can gather your thoughts.

‘I…’

- _don’t expect you to understand, Sebastian_ \- you imagine his derision filling the silence. Your fingers curl against your palms pre-emptively. You expect something _abrasive_ , even _caustic._

‘I did not think-’

                                ‘Mmm, clearly’

‘ _Seb_ ’

                ‘Listening’

‘I had not anticipated…’

- **T I TOLD YOU TO FUCK O** \- a door slams somewhere above you, rattling the windows.

In place of the missing words, the inexpressible, _inexcusable_ thoughts, his fingers press into your back like muffled claws. _Yes_ , you think, _yours, of course._

You sigh, steel shoulders dissolving, and turn to look at his face as his fingers slide higher up your back. He was never this gentle _before,_ nor so candid about his uncertainty. He’s watching his hand where it rests against your skin as if he doesn’t understand why it’s there. Suddenly you feel incredibly tired.

‘I know’, you say

He smiles faintly, an awkward expression on him, and smoothes his thumb over the taut muscles either side of your spine.

‘There was a man outside Москва’ he murmurs, and you have no idea where this is coming from, or where it’s going.

‘His shoulders were exactly the same width as yours’

You breathe out silently, press the base of your spine into his hand as if he hasn’t always had both hands wrapped around it.

‘Slower though. Not as tall.’

You can feel the stifling tension dissipating.

‘I am quite a catch’

                                ‘Mmm useful’

‘And handsome’, you say, with a quick half-smile

                                ‘Modest’

‘Irreplaceable’

                                ‘Somewhat stupid’

‘Only somewhat?’

                                ‘Better with guns’

‘Everybody’s better with guns than you’, _you think of the pool, the roof._

His hand stills on your back

‘How about these guns’, you say reflexively, smirking and flexing your upper arm.

He looks up at you tiredly as if your idiocy, tolerated up until this point, has suddenly become profoundy unbearable.

 _Beautiful_.

‘You’re no fun anymore’ you laugh

‘Please tell me I wasn’t _fun_ before’, he says sounding half asleep.

You laugh harder, shaking the mattress. _Oh god you’re fucking hysterical._

He tugs the back of your shirt feebly and you ease yourself down next to him. He makes a low sound in his throat when you accidently knock his side with your knee; you touch your nose to the side of his head.

You lie like that for a while, thinking of nothing, and the curve of his ear. But mostly nothing.

After an incalculable amount of time he holds up a cigarette end that’s been smoked all the way down to the filter.

‘This place really is disgusting’

‘You could have collapsed elsewhere’ you say mildly

‘Don’t be ridiculous’

                                ‘Go to sleep, James’

                                                                                                ***

It doesn’t take long at all for him to drop off. He was half dead on his feet to start with. You can’t though, sleep that is. You lie awake for hours as if you’re keeping watch. He mumbles a bit, tries to roll over onto his ribs. You stop him gently with one arm and he subsides alongside you. His bruises look black in the darkness, though not as black as his eye sockets.

Later, you wake up, vaguely annoyed you’d fallen asleep in the first place. You groan into the scratchy mattress, face down, neck tilted awkwardly to the side. Your arm is flung across the empty space beside you.   _Jim is gone_.

Perfect, you think. You roll over sluggishly - _Maybe if you make some calls in the next five minutes_ \- to the sight of all 17 of the knives you’d hidden laid out neatly on the floor. Well presumably 16 because Jim’s standing in the doorway looking unimpressed holding another.

_And he’s nothing but thorough._

‘Uninspired’ he says, ‘Two minutes. _Boring_ ’. He’s wearing a different shirt but it’s still one of yours.

You groan and roll back, ‘Я в отставке’

‘нет’

                ‘Яша…’

‘London’s burning’ he says, eyes bright.

Your throat itches at the sound of his voice as you hold your hand out in front of you, _steady_.

 

 

You look up at him defiantly.

 

'I still won't-'

                      'Yes yes', he says impatiently 

'You busy this afternoon?' you ask, smirking.

 

 

You both grin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ‘Я в отставке’ - I'm retired
> 
> ‘нет’ - no
> 
> ‘Яша…’ - James *affectionate*

**Author's Note:**

> *phew* thank you!  
> This is my 'dialogue saga' :P  
> Do have a look at some of my other things if this tickled your fancy  
> Have a nice day ^^
> 
> Inpired in part by The Departed  
> And These Violent Delights by Pasiphile (because it's fucking amazing)
> 
> *sorry about the tags, I got carried away*
> 
> **not sorry**


End file.
